


best, finest surgeon

by mxingno



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Unreliable Narrator, Vivisection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9069469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxingno/pseuds/mxingno
Summary: Across the room, a red light blinks on and off, regular as a heartbeat. Dennis closes his eyes; against the blank canvas of his eyelids, Mac is staring up at him, an adoring disciple before the divine.(in which Dennis's imagination gets away from him, a little.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinitevariety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitevariety/gifts).



> **please note** that on top of the typical background-noise unpleasantness of canon, this fic contains gore (fantasy gore, but still), sexual content, internalised fat-shaming, and a reference to animal death. please note also that I do not endorse Dennis Reynolds. 
> 
> if you want to check for any particular content before reading the fic, I'm at mxingno on Tumblr and I'll answer any messages privately.
> 
> huge thanks to AO3 user infinitevariety, who cheerled this abomination into being, and who provided me with the audience I needed to actually write the thing down. I owe you like ten rounds of beta-reading. <3

It wouldn’t be happening if they’d let him become a veterinarian. That’s not even his line; it’s _the_ line, simple and objective fact. He could have lived his best life, saving animals and shit, hot chicks with sick puppies all vulnerable and crying after a shot of pentobarbital to their precious fur-baby’s trembling flank, and maybe if he hadn’t been so goddamn thwarted by the goddamn idiot academic establishment he wouldn’t be here pounding off with nothing in his head but Mac’s body, neatly arrayed, set out before him like a cadaver only warm and worshipful and waiting.

Idiots. Dennis pops his shirt off, settles back against his pillows. He’s wasted on fantasy Mac. Not that he’d expect them to understand.

When did this become habit? It starts the same way, every time; no context, just a room that’s clean and white and spare, perfect in its bare-bones decor and clinical light. His hand skims down over his chest -- past the nips, save those for later or he’ll shoot off before he’s even started -- to where the bones of his hips jut out like knives beneath his skin. Dennis Reynolds is sculpted to perfection, which is to say that there is nothing about him that is inessential or excessive. He is lean and tight and flawless. Unlike Mac, splayed out on a table with his limbs pinned down at its corners, who is covered in stretch marks and trashy tattoos -- visual hangovers from times when Dennis’s influence lapsed, when he went away to college, when he failed to notice Mac’s non-stop carbo-loading downward spiral into grotesquery. In his mind’s eye he surveys his past mistakes from on high, a sculptor looking for art in a block of unformed marble. He shakes his head. It’s the privilege of such base material to be remade in his hands.

Dennis palms his own dick through his jeans. Across the room, a red light blinks on and off, regular as a heartbeat. He closes his eyes; against the blank canvas of his eyelids, Mac is staring up at him, an adoring disciple before the divine.

He isn’t bad, as raw material goes. Of course he’s not _good_ , either, not when he’s not tied down and ready for Dennis. He’s low-class trash with no respect for the temple that is his body. He’s never worked out anything but glamour muscles in his worthless trash life, and he has no respect for the sanctity of Dennis’s property, or food, or person. But he _is_ very much at Dennis’s mercy. That’s at least half of it. The other half barely registers. Dennis is a paragon of self-control; nothing registers, nothing, without his say-so. Even then.

This, though -- this is going right to his dick. He’s so hard he’d swear he can feel his heartbeat against the palm of his hand. He pops the button of his jeans, drags down the zipper -- slowly, slowly, he’s a man of class, he’s not some over-eager slut -- eases jeans and boxers alike down just far enough that he can take his dick properly in hand. Almost a waste to keep it to himself like this. He’s never seen a dick he liked better than his own; Mac’s is acceptable, at least, but none of the others have ever really held a candle. In terms of geometry alone -- he drags his thumb over the flushed skin of his cockhead, smearing precome down onto the shaft as he starts to jerk himself off. In terms of geometry alone he is optimal. Science would agree, no matter what Mac has to say about his balls -- as though Mac would know a goddamn thing about anything.

In the bright white room in his mind, there is a scalpel in his hand. It glints as though it’s drinking in the light. Mac’s gaze drops to its perfect edge, somewhere at the meeting-point of eagerness and hunger. Dennis’s pulse thrums in his palms, his temples, his dick. He takes a step closer, and another.

“Ask me for it,” he tells Mac, grazing the line of his jaw with the point of the blade. “Beg.”

Mac doesn’t hesitate for a second. He’s so much more pliable when he isn’t real, when he’s a creature of Dennis’s invention; he’s far more given to the obeisance Dennis deserves. “Please,” he says, and there is real, naked _need_ in it. “Please, Dennis. Take me apart.” Why bother with the real thing? Dennis gropes blindly at his nightstand until his fingers find the lube. He could spend his life with fantasy Mac and never have to tolerate another moment’s insubordination, not from the gang, not from anyone. “Make me better, Dennis.” It’s a reach, even for an imagination as fecund as his own, to put these words into Mac’s mouth; then again, Mac’s been keeping a cheap sex-shop flogger under his bed for years now, playing at penance when he thinks Dennis is out of the apartment. It’s plausible. He slicks his fingers, circles his hole, waits until Mac’s voice cracks in his ears.

He presses in, slow and relentless. Mac’s blood wells up around the blade. There’s a blunt, dull ache as his hole stretches to accommodate his fingers -- three to start, which is only fitting for a man of Dennis’s sexual prowess. His other hand finds his dick. His other hand splays flat and firm against Mac’s sternum, as he drags the scalpel slowly down to part Mac’s skin.

Mac’s face is contorted, beaded with sweat; he looks like a saint, wrenched apart with the impossibility of exaltation. When he opens his eyes, he looks right at Dennis. “Keep going,” he says, and Dennis twists like a butterfly pinned and desperate, driving his fingers harder, deeper. He draws back Mac’s skin like a veil, laying bare the machinery of his chest. More fat than muscle, still, even after all the ephedra, even in Dennis’s mind. It’s almost an insult. It _is_ an insult. Dennis cuts through the fat effortlessly, mercilessly, until it’s gone. Dennis is _better_ than fat, that much has been proven time and time again, and under the fat there is muscle, and that is what it means to make Mac better. Somewhere past the relentless hammering of Dennis’s heartbeat, Mac is babbling his thanks, convulsing in his restraints as blood drips down from the table to the floor. He’s so grateful. So pathetically goddamn desperate for Dennis’s guiding hand.

The bedsheets are tangled up around his legs; he’s dripping in sweat, running hot, cotton clinging to his skin. He finds bone beneath the muscle, at long last, rising and falling with Mac’s every ragged gasping breath. His hands shake as he reaches -- but no, no, that’s not right, his hands don’t shake. He is calm, in control. His hands are steady as he reaches to touch Mac’s ribcage; it’s Mac’s pulse he can feel in the bones of his fingers, not his own, not his own.

Mac’s still talking. How is Mac still talking? His blood is slick and glistening on the tiles, on the table, on Dennis’s hand as he drives his fingers deeper in. “Dennis,” he’s saying, and “God” and “yes” and “you love this” -- Dennis’s breath catches in his throat. That’s not in the script, not even close, but he can’t _stop,_ not like this. He rocks up into his own hand, eyes shut tight, Mac’s voice realer and clearer than it’s ever been. “You love this,” says Mac, and the scalpel slips from Dennis’s bloodied fingers. “You love me like this. Right?”

“Mac,” he says. He barely hears himself say it; it barely sounds like a word.

“You got me where you want me,” says Mac. He has no right to be this calm with Dennis’s hands inside him, no right at all, it’s a slight, it’s insubordination. It’s the filthiest goddamn thing he’s ever heard come out of Mac’s mouth. “Come on, man, you can admit it. You’ve wanted to get your hands under my skin since freshman year.”

It doesn’t _happen_ like this. Dennis is in perfect control of himself -- his body, his mind, whatever figment of his imagination is guest-starring in his fantasies this week -- and he has never once lapsed in that control, not ever. His skin is hot, too hot, prickling like the sheets are made of needles. He would let go, leave Mac broken and abandoned on the table for having the temerity to flip the script, if any part of him at all remembered how.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Mac says, blithely, and Dennis can’t even fucking look at him. “It’s pretty twisted, dude, even for you. But I get it. You’re a god, right? You want to know what makes me tick. Or you want access -- ah, yeah,” he says, as Dennis shudders full-body, wrist-deep in Mac’s chest. “Yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? You want to go as deep as it goes. You want to know literally everything about me. You want me exposed.”

He’s going to come apart, trapped between arousal and abject fury -- fury with nowhere to go, no target but its source. “Well,” Mac says, and Dennis hears himself gasping, voice beginning to crack. “Here I am. All yours--”

\--and he drives his fingers deep enough that for a second he doesn’t see anything at all--

\--and the ceiling overhead is striplit white, and his ankles and wrists are banded with cool, unyielding steel. His chest is torn open, a mess of glistening red; it hurts, it hurts all through him, in the way that drives out everything else and grips him by the throat and forces him to look himself in the eye. His vision swims. Somewhere apart from everything else, Mac is gazing down at him like he’s the only thing in the world.

With infinite, incongruous tenderness, Mac slips his hands under Dennis’s skin. It doesn’t hurt the way it should. It’s just -- pressure where there shouldn’t be pressure, strange and electric as he gasps like a drowning man for air. Mac’s palms against his ribcage, steadying; something about that weight against him that’s calming, even as Mac is wrist-deep in his chest cavity and liberally streaked with his blood. None of it is right. He’s bereft, exposed, frantic. Every inch of his skin is singing to him, every thread on his goddamn bedsheets a blade waiting to bite. He is Dennis Reynolds and he is _better_ than this, he is better than this white-trash asshole and the unbearable thrill of being so completely found--

“I got you,” says Mac, leaning close, and Dennis comes with a sharp and broken cry. The red light’s still blinking when he finally, groggily opens his eyes.

He rewatches the tape a few days down the line, when Mac’s out of the apartment and he’s got time to kill; it’s better to give these things a little space to settle, like a fine wine, or a defused bomb. It’s pretty good, as his solo tapes go. Middling, at least. It means nothing at all that he ejects it before it ends.


End file.
